


Certain Circles

by Carbocat



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Bad Puns, Excessive Drinking, Support Group
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:50:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: One grew to recognize the archetypes of group therapy.He had never been one to heed warnings, a smirk tilting his mouth to a lopsided tilt, “This is the amputee support group.”





	Certain Circles

Mary Bolkonskaya was a plain but effective therapist.

From the first glance, Dolokhov had not liked her.

He found her timid manner unnatural, found her too plain and affected, insolent and dry. He found her too forgettable and overran by her own therapy groups.

It was court ordered group therapy.

His own duty was to show up, not to like the therapist that ran it, not to listen. Not to pretend to care. It was that which alienated them both – she was too timid and he was too brass but something shifted after the third session.

Something broke in him halfway through Lazarev talking about health insurance and losing benefits, and Mary had listened when he started to rant, and paced the circle, and punch a hole into the wall. She offered him simple words and no pity, no excuses, offered nothing to the equivalence of the arm he left scattered across East Europe countryside.

Mary never limited anybody in the group to what they did not have, and she did not tell them that things would get better, that they’d find a new purpose in the loss of what they had. She simply told them that they must move onwards, that loss hurt and it felt like the end but that was not often the case.

He believed her.

She told them the story of her father’s anger, of the unforgiving stone of the long descending staircase that had shattered her spine in three places. She told them in her soft timid voice how cold and meticulous her father’s doctors had been when they told her that she would never walk again.

She told them that it got better for her, that the future she thought she had was not the one she got. She told them that some days fared better and some fared worse, but she could not return to those days before the stairs so she learned to live without them.

It was not easy, she told them.

Dolokhov had adored nothing, hated nothing but enjoyed nothing, _felt_ nothing for so long after waking up in dirty med camp sheets, numb to the pain. Everything was far and distant and felt like a dream since he was spoken to in thick accents and simple words, explaining all that he could not get back.

Life felt like a movie since he returned from the way, from the hospital, without an arm. He did not even have the energy for this to feel like a nightmare.

His dark eyes were a cold and distant stare, and his mother spoke to her book club about how much easier it would have been to have her son return with a flag to his chest than the shell that she got back. He was damaged, he was broken.

He felt nothing until Mary spoke to him.

He felt pain, and loss, and a boundless hopelessness. He hated her for it, he adored her. He found her enjoyable in their latter sessions, found group to be an anchor he desperately needed to tether him to this reality, that it was the calm center of his warring mind.

When the court order was up, he still stood within the circle. _Hi, my name is Fedya. I lost my arm in battle._

_Hi, Fedya._

One grew to recognize the archetypes of group therapy. 

It was a revolving door of lifers and long-timers, the newly traumatized with their hospital bracelets still on (if they had the limbs to wear them). The skittish, the nervous, the angry at war with themselves and the world. The pained, the hopeless, the ones with the court orders that did not want to be there. The bold, the desperate, the hopeful, the ones too good for group therapy in a high school gymnasium.

The door revolved and the people changed, but nothing really changed.

Dolokhov knew without a word passed between them that the person standing within the chair circle was the type to turn their nose up at practice, and process, and talking in group. The figure was not the one to sneer and bear their teeth, the warring type, the violent aggressors, no.

He was some rich kid forced to come with Daddy’s money, a suicide risk, and a judge a little too sympathetic. Crisp well-tailored clothes, a certain stance, a certain aura of superiority and gaiety smothering the room were all too telling of who this was.

Dolokhov hated him already, felt the heat of it rush into his heart and ache the extension of the arm he was missing. He fiddled with writing his name on his tag so not to interrupt Mary’s whispered conversation with the stranger.

He watched from the corner of his eyes as she rocked back and forth ever so slightly in her wheelchair, a sigh Dolokhov recognized as anxiety to the towering imposing figure of the stranger’s lean frame. He had not heard a word from the stranger, though he had not missed the decorated crutches, the hood pulled down over his head, and the quick reflection of light off sunglasses.

The stranger’s face was passive when he caught sight of it, he was not listening to a word Mary was saying.

Dolokhov turned back to his nametag, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and a shudder shake down his spine. A quick look to his side revealed a woman that had approached like the shadows she stood in and he observed her unwavering stare at the conversation among he chairs.

She was a beautiful creature, plump bare shoulders and a sharpness in her eyes that related so often to a sharp tongue. His eyes traced long rows of pearls down her smooth skin to the bust of a low-cut dress and high heeled shoes but it was the unapproachable and warning set of her jaw that was most captivating.

Dolokhov had always had an unhealthy attraction to that which would kill him and she looked ready to maim.

He had never been one to heed warnings, a smirk tilting his mouth to a lopsided tilt, “This is the amputee support group.”

Her eyes flickered to him as Dolokhov managed to get his fingernail between the adhesive on the name tag. She looked so suddenly bored as he stuck the tag over the name stitched onto his work polo but said not a word so he did, “Looks may be deceiving but you look like you got all of your limbs, missing something on the inside then?”

She returned her gaze back to the circle pointedly as if he was not worth the attention she had already spared. “Was it your heart?”

Her eyes cut to his, harder and more unreadable, and incredibly attractive, “Some would be so inclined to agree with you.”

“Are you among them?”

“Yes,” She said. “Yes, I am.”

She turned on her heels and walked from the room, he did not foresee her return. It left that half-grin still on his face until he turned his attention back to Mary and the circle.

The stranger was seated, tension running along narrow shoulders and his spine snapped straight. Mary met his eyes over the stranger’s shoulder and Dolokhov nodded to the unasked question.

He grabbed one of the dullish sharpies and a nametag before walking across the floor. He sat down in his usual chair, almost directly across from the stranger and passed the contents to Mary. He observed.

She held the nametag to the stranger and he sneered at it, crossing his arms. Dolokhov could not help the way his eyes drew down the slopes of sharp pale features and plump lips, down a narrow frame and clearly defined muscles, and strong long legs, one stopped abruptly at the knee.

They had not had someone with a leg amputation in a while.

“You do not have to have a nametag,” Mary said softly. “It is not enforced, it is merely encouraged so if you would like to forego-“

He sighed, sounding put out, and grabbed the tag from her. Dolokhov watched, pretending like he was watching the door, while the stranger scribbled out something in a messy scrawl and stuck it to the lapel of his jacket, _Paul._  

Mary sighed and shot a disappointed look at Paul but she said nothing of the name, “Okay. This is Fedya, he is part of the group.”

“This is a conflict of interest.”

It was the first thing that he heard this stranger, this _Paul_ guy, say. It was spoke in an accent not quick to place but Dolokhov would bet it was Russian. He listed the words out as if each held a greater importance than the last, head shifting minutely as if to be looking at Mary for the first time.

Her mouth twisted down into a frown as he added, “You cannot be objective, you do not want to help me.”

“I have no ill will towards you or anybody, An- _Paul_ ,” She stated calmly. “I wish to help people, to help you, but if that is the way you feel than I would be happy to give you a referral if you wish. I do think that we can make progress here. I am a familiar face, but a familiar face may be what you need.”

“I would be very comfortable _not_ being here.”

“But you are here and there must be a reason for that,” She replied. “Whatever that reason is, I hope that you hold onto it. I can see how you’ve changed and the hurt that you are holding. I do wish that it was not present in your eyes.”

“You cannot see my eyes.”

“I do not need to,” She told him and then asked in a soft voice, “Would you stay, for just one session and then make your decision.”

He did not respond for seconds that ticked by and then airily stated, “I suppose.”

 

It was amusing to a degree.

The sunglasses and the hoodie, as if the stranger – as if _Paul, George, Ringo_ – was some sort of celebrity hiding from the public. There were a few theories within their amputee support group therapy trivia team that maybe he _was_ some kind of celebrity. That maybe _Elton_ was some B-list actor from a terrible soap opera – they’d had one of those before.

Kirsten theorized out loud before group one evening that maybe he had some pretty nasty scaring, tracing up the rough scarring climbing up from a handless wrist. Denisov suggested that maybe he was just really ugly.

Dolokhov said little, he always had.

 _Paul_ simply became _George,_ became _Lennon,_ became _Ringo,_ and the light Russian accent slipped into a thick French one with no mention. It was not like the stranger said much anyways.

The nametags were more telling than Dolokhov thought he knew he was being, as one’s music taste said so much about them. The rise he was wishing to get out Mary had yet to come, there was no disappointing notion in her voice as she asked for _Sonny, Elvis, Prince’s_ opinion or thought, or _‘It will only benefit you to participate in discussion, Iggy.’_

A deep and heavy sigh overtook the room after meeting twice a week for over a month, and Dolokhov thought that Mary plain composure was going to fucking snap, _‘Michael Jackson, really?_ ’

“Da.”

He was Russian this week, lovely.

He gave nothing to give away except a healthy appreciation for sixties and seventies music, and the failing realization that he did not need to say a word to be read like a book. His shoes ( _shoe_ , he snapped when Denisov told him that he liked it) were designer, new, and always lack wear to their treads. Loafers, tennis shoes, sandals, and all of his trousers were tailored at the hems and fitted to perfection around what were defined muscles.

His sunglasses cost more than Dolokhov paid in his rent – a fact he knew when he looked up the brand on his phone after group – and his vocabulary spoke of a high education.

His stories, always made up, always fake, changed as his voice slipped from English, to Russian, to French, to German with ease but, “Your German accent sucks.”

“What?”

A startled and surprised English with a slight undertone of a Russian upbringing passed through surprised lips. Fedya suspected that he found the stranger’s true accent.

“I’ve been to Germany.”

“As have I.”

“And I know that your German accent sucks ass,” Dolokhov told him bluntly, silencing the group around them. “It sounds like you’re trying to imitate a Nazi in a shitty movie.”

He flushed a bright crimson, “I – I am not!”

 

“Mikey.”

 _Michael Jackson_ said not another word for the rest of group and Dolokhov had the distinct feeling of being glared at through sunglasses the whole time. He followed the stranger out when group was over, easily keeping pace with the man on crutches.

He did not even spare a word so Dolokhov offered many, squinting at the scrawl on the nametag, “You sure that’s your name. You really have no excuse for handwriting like that when you have both of them.”

Dolokhov saw his own reflection in the stranger’s sunglasses when he stopped before exiting the building, leaning against a wall.

“What is it that you want?” The stranger asked in a tired sigh, pulling out his phone. “To criticize my accents some more.”

“For the time being, I’m satisfied with that,” He grinned at his face in the glass. “So. What was it that you lost?”

“I – what?” He asked, his mouth twisting into a confused frown. “Is that not evident?”

“I’m fucking with you, kid,” Dolokhov told him with a laugh that appeared only to make the stranger tense up more. “Wow, I didn’t know the sense of humor was located in the right tibia.”

“I... I imagine that it would be located in the humerus,” The stranger said after a whole, tapping one of his crutches against the floor after pocketing his phone.

“Ha! Good one,” Dolokhov nodded, a smile crawling back up his face. “I hope you like puns, that is apparently part of my ‘coping mechanism,’ according to Doc Bolkonskaya.”

“I can’t stand them.”

Fedya narrowed his eyes and then laughed, patting the stranger on the shoulder roughly before moving away from the wall. He didn’t mention the way he pitched forward in surprise, catching himself on his crutches as Dolokhov got a drink from the water fountain. “I like you, kid.”

“How did you lose your arm?”

The question was blunt and to the point, and there was no shame on the part of the face he could see. It was almost refreshing.

“Army, if you’d believe it,” He stated. “Should have joined the _arms_ -y, then I’d have kept both.”

“At least the advertising is not false.”

“How’d you lose yours?” He asked. “It was recent enough, you’re not all that comfortable on the crutches and well-“

“I – I am going to be fitted for a prosthetic when I – I’m completely healed, I believe,” He stuttered, the confidence falling from his face. Dolokhov dropped his own smile and nodded seriously. “I don’t wish to speak of it.”

“That’s fine.”

“I mean it.”

Dolokhov does not offer another word and the stranger does not either, just tilted his head down as if to observe into Fedya’s thoughts. There was something alluring and intoxicating about their new stranger, the man who said too much without saying a single thing.

Dolokhov watched him check the buzz of his phone and then push off the wall without so much as a single goodbye. He got to the door before Fedya formed the words on his tongue, “What is the conflict of interest between you and the doc.”

He almost thought that he would not get an answer as the stranger had the door pushed open to the rain outside, a grin appearing on his face as quickly as it disappeared.

“We were once set to be wed.”

 

“And how did you end up in your wheelchair, Mary?”

It was an Italian accent that drawled airily today and the room stilled, whispered conversations halted. It was not so much because no one knew, Mary shared her own trauma if you asked and she spoke often of the importance of group therapy after losing the feeling in her legs. It was not a secret but it felt the like the stranger knew that.

 _We were set to be wed_.

His intentions were made as clear as crystal. He was to cut down any and all olive branches extended to him. Today was a day to burn all of his bridges, it was evident from the moment he walked in.

“That is a tale that everybody here has heard but if you think that it will help, _Van_ , I can share it again.”

The stranger sighed annoyed and waved his hand dismissively, “No, no, if I wished to hear of bitter old princes of Russia than I would speak with my father.”

The room perked at that, leaning forward in interest and baited breath. Dolokhov hated himself for doing the same. _We were set to be wed. I would speak with my father_.”

There was a mild curiosity that had bloomed to _something_ after their talk last week. A hyper-fixation that would lead to no good, taking up occupancy in his skull with consuming thought like a puzzle he could not complete.

Mary did not seem as interested, her voice polite, “Is that what you’d like to discuss group? It is often difficult for families to adjust to amputation as well, how is your family?”

The stranger’s lip twitched up and then down into a frown before going blank. He adjusted his sunglasses, “No, I do not wish to discuss anything today.”

 

“So, you’re Russian.”

“I do not believe I ever made such a bold claim, _mon cher_ ,” The stranger replied smoothly, as if everything about him wasn’t _bold_ , as if Dolokhov was not smart enough to place together easy pieces. “I do not believe that I have made any claims at all.”

 _It is completely useless for you to be here,_ Dolokhov thought, not for the first time, and nudged the crutch he was reaching for farther out of his reach. “You claimed to have almost married our therapist. She’s Russian.”

“Your leaping knows no bound, Fedya,” He said, sounding almost amused as he straightened his spine. He fixed the collar of the ridiculous coat he was wearing. “It is quite impressive.”

“So, you are.”

“Am I?” He held his hand out for the crutch but Dolokhov did not hand it over. There were multicolored music notes on the crutches, now that Dolokhov could see them up close.

“What’s your real name?”

The stranger hummed and wiggled the fingers on his outstretched hand, “Are you stealing from me?”

“I’m offering a helping hand.”

“Yes, just the one,” The stranger said flatly, he almost got a laugh out of Dolokhov but instead, he got his crutch back. “Have you finished your interview?”

 _You haven’t said anything that matters_. “What makes you think that you’re interesting enough that I would _want_ to interview you.”

The stranger smiled, rows of sharp angled teeth, and tilted his head to the side before he started towards the door. Dolokhov would give it to him, he was _plenty_ interesting.

 

There was a crest embroidered onto the stranger’s jacket today.

There was a shield and a cross, and the letter K. Dolokhov racked his mind for a sports team that corresponded with it but Ringo/Michael/Dylan didn’t seem too into sports. He thought, maybe it was a university, a boarding school.

The stranger was less well, carrying himself through the door on two crutches instead of the one he’d been using for the past week. His jaw twitched with a pulsing pain and he dropped into his chair without any notion of helping Dolokhov set up the rest of the circle.

Mary always ran late to Tuesday group, a fact that Dolokhov knew.

It was that thought that passed through his mind, that possessed him to sit his chair directly in front of – there was no nametag yet.

“Uh, Sinatra?” He spoke, startling the kid from his hunched over form. When he straightened up and stared out of his sunglasses at him, Dolokhov spoke again, “You good?”

“Of course.”

“Really, because it doesn’t look that way,” He said, letting the disbelief sit heavy on his face. “You didn’t even use an accent.”

“I was unaware that you were replacing Mary today.”

“I’m not.”

“I did not think so,” He replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He started texting to someone something filled with the gun emoji and other nonsense, pointedly ignoring Dolokhov.

Dolokhov sighed, “Just – I went through all of this already so if you’re-“

“I have a lovely collection of expensive well-meaning therapists to keep me from killing myself,” He stated bluntly. “If I wanted the help of a grocery store clerk in bad shoes than I’d allow one of them to check me into the  mental hospital of their choosing first.”

“I’m – an assistant manager,” Dolokhov said, the stranger’s lips curling up only for a second. He got under his skin and assumed that Fedya would have the good gracious to back off.

He was wrong.

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I do not need it,” The stranger stated.

“Then why are you here?”

“Excellent point,” He said, grabbing his crutches and moving towards the door. “You can’t-“

“You will find, Fedya Dolokhov,” He spoke. “There is little to be done when I have made my decisions.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Yes, but I am free to be a fool anywhere I wish.”

Dolokhov sat back in his chair, wrapping his arm across his chest and settling down – he was _not_ going to follow. He didn’t even _like_ the stranger, he was just bored with life in general, and group in particular.

Maybe it was time he left – maybe –

He was _just_ getting a drink, he told himself as he stood quickly and walked towards the door. He was going to the bathroom, he told himself as he looked around every corner to the exit doors.

He opened his mouth to call to Mary from where she was nearly the door in conversation with who he recognized to be her brother Audrey but turned sharply into a narrow hallway instead. The stranger’s breath sounded erratic, panicked, tired.

“Hey, hey, c’mon,” Dolokhov said softly. He rested his hand on their other’s shoulder and startled him violently, causing his head to snap back and hit against the wall with a thump. “No, c’mon. It’s going _tibia_ okay.”

The stranger shot him a murderous glare through the shaded lens of his sunglasses, “That’s not humerus in the slightest.”

“You’ve used that one before,” He said with a grin, nearly coaxing one out of the stranger but the sound of approaching footsteps sent him back into his near panic. “No, okay, come with me. Let’s go.”

It was only after they were a distance from the gymnasium and out the kindergarten doors that Dolokhov finally asked, “So, what was up with that?”

“I have no idea-“

“Yeah, sure. Out with it.”

“I, uh – I got off on the wrong foot with him,” The stranger said, pulling his phone out of his pocket but not unlocking it. “Now, I must be going.”

“That have anything to do with you, what? Leaving Mary at the alter?”

That snaked a smile onto pinks lips, pulled pale skin into almost a smile, “It never got that far, I’m afraid. His – our transgressions are in regard to something else.”

“You want to get food?” Dolokhov asked when he looked down at his phone again. He shrugged when he was looked at, “I’m starving and group is practically over anyways.”

It hadn’t started but neither pointed it out so Dolokhov added, “Unless you were planning to text that girlfriend of yours that usually picks you up.”

“My sister,” He stated after silence passed for too long between them. “She is my sister.”

“Oh. Oh, my bad?”

“I would like food, yes.”

Dolokhov smiled, “Okay, Mozart, where to?”

“Waffle House.”

 

He was Bowie today and British when he felt like it.

Dolokhov was learning that he was also a complete and total dick.

It was a revelation that came to Dolokhov only after they bypassed the Waffle House for the likes of a cheap little sports bar called Ripley’s and he was left at the bar to carry their drinks over to their table on his own. It shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was, the guy wore sunglasses inside.

He waved off the overly helpful bartender, holding one of the slick glasses in his elbow and the other in his hand. He was received with an unimpressed look when he sat the drinks down at the table, “I do not enjoy beer.”

“Then get it yourself, Ziggy.”

He hummed annoyed and took the glass, sipping from it. He made a face, “This is awful. I would like vodka.”

“You gonna foot the bill?”

“Only if you give me a hand, mon cher.”

 _Asshole_.

 

“Fraternizing outside of group is generally discouraged.”

“It’s a _support_ group.” There were no nametags for the patrons of Waffle House at four in the goddamn morning. “You’re supporting me.”

The stranger – goddamn _Ringo,_ or Bowie, or _Jim fucking Morrison_ was almost ignoring him in favor of rapid fire texting on his phone. Dolokhov would almost let that pass because he actually _liked_ this stranger and maroon was a damn good color on him but he was sober at _Waffle House_ at _four_ in the goddamn morning.

He had to be at work in three hours.

“For _healthy_ activities like trivia night,” Dolokhov stated like maybe _Ziggy Stardust_ over here hadn’t picked up on that. “Not drunk off your ass at _Waffle House_ at four in the morning.”

“Fascinating,” He said, finally looking up from his phone with a grin that was all sharp jagged teeth like he didn’t hear a word Dolokhov said. “Eating is a healthy activity, I believe even Mary would agree.”

Dolokhov stressed, “Doc is pretty adamant about it, especially this early on.”

He could see the sigh working up the stranger’s pale throat as his head fell back. The hood of the jacket he was wearing under his maroon coat threatened to fall back and reveal more platinum blond hair before it was pulled back down over blue-tented lenses. He reeked of vodka and their was glitter _everywhere_.

There was no spin on this that would be _healthy_. 

Dolokhov sighed, “What is your real name?”

“You are not going to ask where I got your number from?”

 _Yeah,_ he was going to ask that but – “Well, then how did you get my number?”

The stranger had the audacity to look smug when _he_ called him from a cheap sticky Waffle House, slurring into the phone about misplacing his wallet and needing cash, “It was gifted to me, Mary thought that you could offer me your services.”

“Not as your own personal taxi driver.”

“I do not need your taxi services, Fedya,” He told him, tapping on the screen of his phone. “I have the _best_ driver, Balaga. He is a madman.”

“Why did you-“

“Now, you have my number,” He told him, leaning towards him over the table, “Lend me fifty dollars?”

 

Denisov’s cat died.

He announced it in group first thing, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm and he sighed. He left a window open despite his roommate _constantly_ telling him to close it, and the cat clawed through a hole in the screen. He got off work and found the animal flat in the street.

It was a rough blow, and it was felt in by most of them. An unspoken agreement made between their trivia team that they would hit Ripley’s for happy hour and trivia, and indulge in more than they should.

Mary didn’t need to know.

 

Dolokhov pressed the first kiss, something drunk and light, and absolutely ridiculous against the smooth cool paleness of bony knuckles. He accompanied the soft kiss with many more against calloused pads of his fingertips. He enjoyed the soft sighed gasps pulled from _John-Paul-Ringo-whatever’s_ lips.

He’d already indulged in so much and he _wanted_ this.

In the back of a dark booth where – where _Elvis-Prince-Michael_ felt comfortable enough to drop his douche sunglasses and stupid hoods, and Dolokhov found his breath stolen by blue eyes and white blond hair, and the sharp angles of cheekbones bare and uncovered. And well, there had been a lot of drinking during trivia.

“Mary heavy suggests that we should avoid alcohol in the beginning of group,” He said when trivia turned to beer, turned to shots, turned to more shots, turned to a dark booth in the back with this beautiful stranger.

“Mary is not here, I will not tell her.”

Dolokhov had almost avoided alcohol in its totality since he lost his arm, the fear of turning to drinking as a coping mechanism was something that still dreaded him but cash had been pressed into the palm of his hand and expectancy sat in those blue eyes. So, he bought the drinks.

 He bought more drinks, and ordered cheap greasy food, and bought even more drinks. Then he kissed him and _Iggy-Bowie-Mercury_ kissed back.

It was greedy and readily accepted.

Calloused fingers curled into his beard and ran down his back, pulling him close and allowing him to explore the imperfection of the jagged back teeth in his mouth. Dolokhov pulled back when glasses clinked against the table as the waitress sat them down.

The stranger smiled something genuine and excitable, and paid the waitress that he’d spent half the night flirting with no mind at all. He downed both of their shots and hissed through the burn, “I do not live far, let’s go.”

 

“This is – this is a nice place,” Dolokhov said, arm wrapped around Anatole’s waist and slipping into the tight pocket on his hip to keep the drunk blond upright. They said nothing of his forgotten crutch or his sunglasses still left on the table.

They only laughed and held onto each other, and bounced with giddy excitement until they stopped in front of a tall building with large glass windows and gold fixtures going up as far as Dolokhov was willing to look. “A really nice place, you must – pay a fortune.”

There was a kiss pressed to his temple and a hum of something in French as the stranger pulled Dolokhov up the large front steps to the landing. Dolokhov read the names on the buzzer panel as he fumbled with his keys.

The door pushed open to a large empty lobby that was nicer than Dolokhov’s whole _life_ , and he allowed himself to move when he was pulled on. He found amusement as the blond greet the security camera in the corner with slurred Russian and a flamboyant bow. They’d both almost stumbled to the floor because of it.

The stranger pressed against him, pressed him into the elevator wall as the doors slid shut and kissed him hard, and rough, and pulled on his clothes in all the ways that he wanted to pull them off. His hands wandered, pulling and gripping, as Dolokhov’s fingernails curled into thick blond hair.

There was an almost strange and hilarious giddiness rushing through Dolokhov with the stranger’s long elegant fingers tangled in his shirt and his lips on his open smile. Dolokhov’s back was pressed against the door as the stranger fumbled with the lock on the door, his own hand in a bruising grip on the stranger’s hip to keep him steady.

They were both too drunk and listing, and too stupid to think of what would happen when the door was unlocked and opened.

Dolokhov stumbled backwards with the stranger’s weight pressing against him, unable to catch himself when his arm was wrapped around his waist. The stranger’s lone crutch fell out from beneath him and he stumbled too, falling into Dolokhov.

Fedya’s back hit the wall and he had to let go of his grip on the stranger’s narrow waist to keep himself from falling. The stranger didn’t fall either, just closed any barrier between them with a breathless gasp and then an incredulous giggle when they were standing steadier.

“Got a little out of hand,” Dolokhov muttered with lips pressed to his collarbone. It was responded with a snort in a manner most unprincely.

The stranger reached behind him to close the door, letting it slam shut before tilting up Dolokhov’s chin so their lips connected. Dolokhov could feel the warmth of the body against his, and the way nimble hands wandered down his chest and over the shrapnel scarring, and it just felt… good.

He wanted to explore his body and all of the sharp edges but was currently the only thing holding up this man whose name he didn’t even know, “We should – we should move this to – to the bedroom.”

There was a low hum buzzing in his ear but it was not his voice that responded, “That so?”

They both froze and the stranger rolled his eyes slowly before throwing his head back annoyed, “Hélène.”

“Anatole,” She said plainly, arms crossed over a revealing nightgown. “Do you know how worried I was? Are you even _going_ to that support group?”

“I – I didn’t know you lived with somebody?”

“I don’t,” Anatole grumbled, pushing away from the wall and away from Dolokhov, and glaring. “Hélène-“

“I waited, Anatole, and I called, and you did not answer! I feared the worst, I feared _worse_ than the worst! That was-“

“This is Fedya,” Anatole answered, cutting off her angry chattering with a dismissive wave of his hand. He wobbled a little as if he forgot about his missing limb, and held to the hall table to keep his balance.

Dolokhov was numb and embarrassed as he reached for the fallen crutch and held it out. Anatole ignored it, “Contrary to the belief of you and Ippolit, I am as capable now as I ever was.”

“That is laughable to almost too many degrees.”

“I do not need you to play my keeper. Now, if you would excuse-“

“No, I won’t _excuse_ you. Tell your – your friend, Anatole, to leave.”

“Fedya is staying.”

“I can go, it-“

“No,” Anatole hissed. “No, you’re – we’re – this is continuing. Shut up, Hélène. Go back to your sad husband or your many pretty mistresses, and leave-“

“This show is-“

“I am not doing the show,” He snapped. “I have already told you that.”

“Mary was supposed to-“

She cut herself off and Anatole laughed, a bitter realization on his lips, “Was that the reason for your insistence, eh? You sided with our parents, and Ippolit, and Pierre, too. Was it all so I would play the damn show?”

“Anatole-“

“I – I do believe that my sister is quite right,” Anatole said softly, turning awkward to Fedya. “She will pay your fare, I am sure. I must be – I am going now.”


End file.
